Ivy Leaves Journal of Literature and Art — Vol. 77 (cover 2)

Ivy Leaves Staff Literary Editors ^

Add Ezeokoli Aiiya George LaToitya Scott Joyce Stein Joiin Lyons

Design Editors Keith Bcibinciiaic

Boston Ciiasity Baxiey lAatt

Carlo Carter Stacy Coleman Lashando Salters

Laura Wolfe Advisors

Wayne Cox Jane Dorn Cover Design Matthew Boston

ANDERSON CaiEGE LIBRARY 316 BOULEVARD ANDERSON.se 29621

driving 1-85

driving 1-85 at night at seventy miles

the

mind of reason/grips the body

harnessed

in

the right seat eyes

in

an hour

strips

stark fear

mesmerized by one

shining ray unfolding mile after mile not daring to

look from side to side but straight

hands seeking something belt visioning metal like

box cars

end

to

to hold

ahead

like

upon metal slamming

off the rails like

end collapsing

in

a

into

like fleeing

from the devil

Margaret Hayes

each other

child's blocks stacked

a tangled heap

like

released from a bov/ or a bullet to a target

from the devil

a puppet

onto other than a seat

from the devil

an arrov/

like fleeing

like fleeing

Mon

grand-pere

Papa, walking blessed the

hand

stick in

fruit

of his loins

with the palm tree's sweet wine.

He made music

with a

gnarled, carved

in his

and The

lulled the night to full

bamboo youth

stalk,

rhythmic slumber.

moon gazed, entranced

by the poignant melody of

whose brown eyes whose wrinkled quietly smiled.

Ada

—

Ezeokoli

retold

face,

this

primeval soul,

a century of earthy splendor,

upon breathing

its

last

The House Up on

the

skeletorial

hill, its

to disturb

come

shadows

with

as you walk the

peaceful slumber.

its

a place

to

open

remains

someone or something

stand, waiting for

that

But

who would

seems almost haunted

that run across the floor

by,

walls

wind

that howls through

and doors.

Rain falling onto the open floors,

lightning flashes across the sky

leaving

all

who

see

feeling both horror

Where

One

is

this

this

—

great sight

and wonder.

—

place

lone tree stands

in

the yard,

no branches only a trunk pointing upward, a perching spot to

dirt

empty yard.

growing, making

it

Tall

grasses

impossible to see

the animals hiding in wait

The house the

on a

is

many people

this

and gravel

road, sending dust

into the

crows

for

watch as cars pass by on

hill,

—

looking over

below, haunting

some

with each clap of thunder causing them to

shudder

Maybe we

in fear.

should

take a

all

moment

and look up

at these remains

with respect

and even

then quickly run away.

Mary Morris

fright

—

Miles linoleum print 1

2"xl 2"

Stacy Coleman

Epitaph Stranger, look

upon

this

marker and smile

in

the

knowledge of the exceeding abundance

of

my

life.

Not

that

it

was

easy,

but richly blessed; not that but that to

I

I

overcame the world,

now go on One who

be with the

John Lyons

did.

Les Saisons

Trees

spew

forth fire,

Valleys rage with shifting hues...

White death, backstage,

Outside children

smiles.

frost.

Taste fluffy drifts of white rain...

Angels

sifting salt.

Frozen breath escapes.

Tanned Birds

Ada

skin

pen

on white sand beckons.

their lyrics.

Ezeokoli

.

sleeping through class.

Stay open

it

through

this class.

Dry erase and chalkboards coffee

.

eyes

little

You gotta make

As my

.

wears

blur

off at last.

I'm drifting into oblivion

Where no science teacher exists And no one can remember How many classes have missed.

I

Beri

Hancock

Marriage oil

on panel with cheese cloth

5'x3'4" Allison

Holdredge

The Bagel Shop At the door,

I

pause before entering

considering the sanity of myself

and those

— brewed coffee and bagels —

inside,

assorted group of early risers

this

perfectly

that defy the still-slumbering

a

solitary light

that

we'd choose

inside

Not

to sleep in for hours

we would

stick to

world

among a town

and

if

of dark storefronts.

given the option,

our tradition,

rising before the sun like the fresh

bagels

to experience the familiar consistency

that suspends daily

chaos

allowing us to prepare for the day,

one hurried

task after another

where we can,

for just

a few moments,

peacefully sip our cream

just that

It's

that never

and sugar-laden

the eyes of the tired looking clerk

seems

to muster

a smile,

the salesman's neatly pressed suit

and

the wrinkled T-shirt of

proudly displaying

his

random

and well,

to

tattoo...

the hour,

collection of lives,

I

can't help but appreciate the purpose in

when we

being here

Moore

common

leave.

each of us

our only shared experience of the day

unknowingly acknowledge our

Jill

tie

the infinite possibilities that will meet us

has even this,

and

a man

forearm

and when you consider the

coffee.

ground.

A

Home

Feeling of

Sometimes when

Though

I

pass by a particular house,

suddenly

I

is

it

sad and

feel

a house

lonely.

never lived

I've

in,

never even entered,

something about

look brings back

its

known sometime, somewhere in the past.

a happiness

It

I've

a feeling of home,

is

a memory of

my own

that clings

to the place,

as intangible as a wish, as solid as a stone.

It

as

is

if

I've

been away and

left

behind something or someone meaningful,

and now have come back I

It

I

it

lost for

my

fills

soul with a wistfulness

don't often feel, but

OS

is

if

to the things

a while.

arms

I

once

somehow trusted

beckon me back,

and a voice

and

my

I

calls to

house,

all

—

that childhood place

take It

is

away

no one can ever

or completely forget.

the joy of being a child again

with the innocence

so

welcome me, heart it were

my my home

wish with

little

and

which hasn't grown up as nor

one

trust

feels

as time escapes us,

become

cautious as

I

but remains forever sealed

remembered simply as

Margaret Hayes

have,

I

have, in

love.

the heart,

Confessions They

When

when

the story

tell

Climbed

4 and cut her a moment. at

I,

into Frances' crib

alone

left

for just

"What happened

to this

curls

baby's hair?"

Mother laughs as she repeats my ready

lie.

Looking straight into her eyes without blinking.

Holding her scissors behind me, covered

"The

rats

did

it,"

I

My conscience was Was

laid

Among

down

coats

in curls,

answer.

for

born

when

at

I,

4

a needed nap

and handbags

of visiting aunts.

Sparkling coin purses inside handbags beckoned.

First

Then

a penny from each, then a dime. guilt,

remorse

for all of

I

my

life.

shame me? always worried, "did they know?"

Did they find out and

}oyce Stein

silently

Hinduism on wood

acrylic

24"x24" Lashanda

Salters

A Confession I

once ripped the mirror

off

my

to

pork

parent's cor, trying

I

the

in

it

my

To avoid

tried to fix

narrow garage.

father's wrath, it

with help from a friend

who knew all sorts of things about cars. thought we had done a good job And reveled in my success until the next day when my father was driving to work and I

the mirror at

I

a stop

fell

convinced

To give dollar

off

sign.

me

bill,

my younger sister new crisp

her in

exchange

for

a magic quarter.

I

could buy so much more with a dollar

Than I

was

I

could with twenty-five cents. quite proud of myself for

outsmarting a six year old

showed

to

Mom

until

she

the "magic" quarter.

Andrew Anderson

Solitary

I

walk over

flattened, shining leaves,

Through a lamplit

stretch of

parking

lot.

My hand, as reaching to scratch A phantom itch, searches to hold your if

I

I

look dov/n the

am

lot

acquainted

hand.

—

v/ith

every step

I

will take,

Trudging through a photograph I've

I

seen too

my

pull

many

times...

step before crushing a red

bloom

Resting in the sea of trodden foliage.

I

cannot fathom why, only

Like

a drop of blood

Forgetting myself

I

lift

in

a

solitary,

snow.

up the flower,

Chagrinned as my careful The

how

field of

fingers crack

stiffened petals.

Dry as a desert.

There I

is

cinch

And

it

nothing more to know.

my

grip over the dried rose.

crackles like a

Allison Holdredge

fire in

my

hand.

Music Box

On

A

a stage of

velvet, gracefully twirling,

miniature ballerina

weaves dreams

for

Tiny hearts. Her porcelain flesh draped

Gossamer

in

a

fabric, forever frozen in time.

Arms posed above her head, as if she Ready to take flight, instead of racing Around and around her lonely stage.

is

The haunting music of a forgotten

Composer

rises

from beneath her feet

Racing to keep up with

And

her, then

Tiny hands reach out to start the

They

slowing

stopping an instant before she does.

slip

and

the music

dance again.

box crashes

The ballerina races out of

control.

to the floor.

The music

Gets louder and louder, then suddenly Silence.

LaTonya Scott

—

Brice oil

on canvas

74"x41" Carter Boston

Life is

a merry-go-round

Constantly moving,

until

That one moment,

You

lose

And

fly

your grasp.

off

Hitting the

I

—

pavement.

super glued myself to the bars.

Hoping Then a

be the

doused

Idea,

And

to

I

Head

last

person there.

persistent idiot with the

hit

the

my hands pavement

in

—

first.

LaTonya Scott

Outside the

air

has

Settled in the crystal cold

Of

winter evening.

The rasping crawl of Fallen leaves rakes along a

Midnight parking

lot.

As the door clicks shut, draw ice into my lungs, I

And

cling to

my

arms.

Allison Holdredge

same

acetone

Cats'll eat hjna

'Ere they'll taste a

Anything else

in

spoon

o'

the fridge.

"Cats won't touch boiled cabbage,"

new adage,

To coin a

But they'll help with the

Cats won't take

Why

just

Enough

bacon a smidge.

their vitamins.

the sight of 'em's

to

make my

kitty

cringe.

But give her a spider That'll fight

She

purrs,

back and

bite her,

"O, what a heavenly binge."

Angie Owens

The carnival

A

sits in

faded rainbow

Of

the valley

in

the midst

nature's green.

Lights as bright as the sun

High above

brilliant

once blinked here

patchv/orks of tents

That held within their folds

Throngs of excitement.

Mechanical rides soared, the creaking machinery Mixing with the

And

jovial

Over

the unusual

Children laughed

Candy At

and

—

exhilarating.

coated, sticky joy

—

sights of delight.

Their voices

A

sound of music

the delighted voices of crowds exclaiming

still

drift in

the wind,

haunting sound chanting through the

Left

behind are

Faded booths and abandoned Broken

lights

and

tattered tents

Forlorn, Left for

reasons forgotten.

Nothing but a memory That

will

always

Wendy Morgan

exist.

rides,

trees.

Fumie oil

on canvas

28"x34" Tracy West

Matthew BastonMission

My

cover

achievement.

is

We

stand on the shoulders of

breakthrough or idea.

day

in

Cover Art

based on growth and

great people and try to

that every

of the

our

make

We own

the next big

should strive for

The

lives.

climber symbolically represents the defini-

an ivy

tion of

magazine.

and the

leaf

When

I

spirit

behind the

talked to Dr. West, the

founder of Ivy leaves, he said

"it

was based

on the academics of the ivy league and the ivy

growing on the main building of the

campus." idea.

My

cover attempts to

The back

is

embody

this

a challenge to everyone

who

reads the magazine to strive for great-

ness

in

the future.

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